Ch.38

Across the sprawling expanse of the plain, knights thundered on their steeds. The powerful horses, sinews flexed and muscles taut, galloped with unrelenting vitality. Each hoofbeat was a seismic shock, pounding the earth beneath them into submission. As they surged forward, the ground churned, sending clouds of dust and soil spiraling into the air.

Their relentless ride had carved a makeshift path through the land, a testament to their unwavering determination. Arriving at a clearing amidst the dense trees, they dismounted gracefully, drawing their longbows with a fluid motion. The tension in the air was palpable as they took aim at distant targets.

The first knight released the bowstring with a controlled exhale, and the arrow was unleashed, hurtling through the narrow gap in the trees. It missed the target by a whisker, veering slightly off course.

One by one, the knights on horseback repeated the ritual. Arrows soared through the air, some finding their mark with precision, while others strayed from their intended path.

"Again!" Bellowed the voice of their commander, cutting through the sound of wind and hoofbeats.

The knights wheeled their horses around, readying for another round of practice. Meanwhile, a diligent team of arrow collectors scurried to retrieve the spent projectiles that now littered the ground.

Fewer than a hundred knights and ten priestesses honed their skills on this makeshift training ground, located just beyond the boundaries of a recently conquered village. Those few capable practiced the magic in meditation, while others refined their swordsmanship, tending to the captured horses, or prepared food for both the soldiers and villagers.

Yet, despite the flurry of activity around him, Erik's attention was focused elsewhere.

"Ty krasivyy molodoy chelovek, takaya chistaya kozha, takie krasivye glaza, takie temnye volosy. U menya est' vnuchka pryamogo vozrasta..." The old woman before him droned on. Her thick accent made it difficult to differentiate the words she spoke.

"Ty... Imeyesh' v vidu... Moy vid." Erik spoke slowly and steadily.

"Ah... Da, vashe proiznoshenie ochen' khorosho. Ochen' velikolepnyy krasivyy molodoy chelovek."

As the horse riders finally circled, the overseer's voice cut through the thunderous drumming of hooves against the earth. "Draw!" His command echoed across the field, a clear and resounding call.

The knights swiftly raised their longbows, their movements remarkably fluid despite the turbulence of the ride. Each rider deftly drew the bowstring, their training shining through as they seamlessly nocked and aimed their arrows. Riding in formation, they reached the designated shooting line. With a collective release, their arrows leaped from their bows in quick succession, slicing through the air. The field became a canvas of airborne missiles, each arrow finding its mark with astonishing precision.

In the weeks to come, they would confront adversaries numbering in the hundreds, but formidable, they were not.

Horseriders, armed with longbows and only a few arrows in their quivers, flanked from within the dense taiga, firing upon enemy armies from the side. They maneuvered through the forest on horseback, aiming their weapons with only moments of flashing windows between the timber, their arrows falling men by the dozen.

The relentless rain poured down upon the open plains, coating the earth with a treacherous layer of mud. Visibility was a fleeting luxury, raindrops clinging to helmets and obscuring vision. In this unforgiving deluge, they fought on, their movements guided by the barked commands from their rear.

Erik's authoritative voice pierced through the downpour, rallying his troops. "Formation! Close ranks!" His words resonated above the din of rain and conflict. With unwavering resolve, his men drew together, forming an unyielding shield wall. Shields interlocked and swords poised, they stood as an impenetrable bulwark.

As the enemy materialized from the veil of rain and fog, their war cries reverberated through the air. Axes and greatswords were brandished high, their heavy weight poised for a lethal descent. With a thunderous clash of metal, they hammered their weapons against their shields, but Innah'vadah's knights stood firm and resolute in their defense, pushing back against their assailants with unified cries, and thrusting forth their blades into the barbarians' guts. 

As their bodies fell back into the mud, their orders were shouted overhead. "Step forth!!" His men marched forward, stepping over the still-warm bodies, a moving wall that closed in on the oncoming enemies.

Wave, after wave, after wave, the barbarian's onslaught continued, relentless in their charge. They swarmed on all sides, pushing and hitting their weapons against their shields, only managing to numb the arms of his knights.

With a heavy-handed slam of a hammer, one of them managed to break the wall. One of the knights, unable to hold his ground any longer, was forced back, forced to his knees as his arms gave out. Quickly, his fellow knights pulled him away, dragging him back through the slick mud.

The enemy, taking advantage of the break in their defense, swung again, but another knight quickly tackled them while simultaneously stabbing a blade into his chest. The enemy soldier struggled, even as the knight twisted his blade within his guts before finally, his strength waivered and he succumbed to death. The moment that happened, the moment the body fell limp, the knight shoved the corpse away, whipped his sword of blood, and raised his shield as he backed into place, filling in the gap in their formation.

Behind his men, Erik watched keenly as the enemy's onslaught began to whittle.

"March!" He commanded, and so they did.

In his hand, he held his helmet, the pouring rain drenching his silky black hair, and filling up the bowl of his helm. He turned it upside down, draining it of water, before placing it upon his head, conjuring his sword, and walking alongside his men.

He and his knights, numbering fifty-eight in total, began their raid on the holding; a great castlekeep of stone.

The defending guards desperately rushed to secure the gate, grappling with the iron chain in an attempt to close it. Their efforts, however, proved futile as the black knights swiftly approached the castle's entrance. They slid on the slick mud and beneath the closing gate. Six of them held the heavy wooden gate up, while the rest made their way inside.

They cut down the enemy guards, took control of the gate, and invaded the castle.

The whole of his army stampeded inside, taking prisoner those who surrendered, and without mercy, killing those foolish enough to take up arms. 

Screams filled the air, the clashing of steel echoed down the halls, and blood soon smeared the walls and marred the floor.

The lord of the castle had barricaded himself in the throne room alongside his kin and court, their swords drawn and their eyes fixed warily on the door.

On the other side of that imposing door, stood the knights, waiting patiently for his arrival. They lined the sides of the hall, their armor gleaming faintly in the dim light of the torches mounted on the wall. As their lord slowly approached the door, a loyal knight lowered his head in a show of deference. "My lord, they have barricaded themselves within this room. We are unable to open it as it is too heavy and thick."

Without uttering a word, his gauntlet-clad hand slammed against the stolid wood of the chamber's door. A malevolent azure fire erupted from the crevices of his armor, a sight that should have seared his flesh but merely obeyed his command. The flames crawled hungrily over the door, no ordinary blaze but an unholy manifestation that happened to resemble the beauty of a flame.

The wood splintered, letting out a cacophonous crackling that reverberated through the chamber. The lord and his retinue, swords raised, inched closer. Behind them, the women and children quivered, seeking refuge from the impending inferno.

"Voz'mite detey v kladovuyu!" The lord barked, his voice trembling with urgency.

"Skyndis', idite! Idite!" His wife ushered the children into the pantry with frantic haste, the other women following. They slammed the door just as the azure flames burst through the other side, devoured furniture, and rendered it to cinders.

Within the blaze's heart emerged a ghastly figure. Clad in a shadowy cloak that danced and melded with the swirling ash and smoke, he was a demonic presence, his inhumanity leaving the Telvanians trembling and their blades quaking in their hands. "Demon...!" His voice trembled in terror.

("You are not far off.") Telvanian words carried across the room, a hollow and emotionless voice that could only be the voice of death itself. It alone, reduced the stoic and battle-hardened warriors before him, to quivering cravens, whose hearts began to beat ever so quicker.

Ordinary flames would have continued to spread, but his did not. Instead, they halted their spread, snuffing out the ordinary orange fires that began naturally, leaving only a haze of smoke and ash in their wake.

The lord grit his teeth, a look of anguish on his face as he blurted out. ("Demon!! Begone from here!! Begone!!") His blade shook in his hand hectically while his chest huffed uncontrollably.

("Your castle has fallen. Surrender, or forfeit your lives.")

A few moments passed of the men trying to wrap their heads around the chaos before one of them was unable to keep his nerve any longer. He attacked in a panicked manner, swinging his axe and throwing himself at the horrific figure standing before him. He screamed as he did, not a cry befitting battle, but one akin to a terrified man losing his mind.

Though Erik moved slowly in response, he acted skillfully and precisely, raising his heel up before the man's knee, while pushing against it. The metal of his boot cracked the bone, snapping it to the point that his leg bent backward. He stumbled while crying out in pain, his weapon being dropped and his head falling into the monster's clutches.

Mercilessly, Erik dug his metal-clad fingers into his eyesockets, digging deeper and crushing his skull with his grip. The gory sound of bone and organ being muddled in his grip made one of the other men fall to his knees in terror.

He threw the now lifeless body to the side and raised up his blade, his arm straight and pointed off to the side.

Two men rushed toward him. He bashed his shield against the left one's hand, sending his weapon flying and shattering the bones in his fingers. A bloodcurdling yell filled the air. Without a moment of pause, he then kicked the knee of the right one, breaking it like a twig. Another painful yell tore through the air like a haunting wail, its tormenting echoes reverberating within the chamber, sending shivers down the spines of all those who heard it. His leg, too, was now bending backward. Erik then plunged his blade into his throat, before ripping it out; his head now cut in two, one side hanging from a thin layer of flesh.

Of the dozen or so men remaining, he began to massacre them all, one by one, cutting off heads whole in single swings of his blade. One after another, they began to drop their weapons and fall to their knees. Those who did were spared.

The lord too, fell to his knees, his blade laying before him, flat on the floor. ("Spare us! Spare us devil!!") He pled, tears falling from his face.

While battles as such ended by night, the war continued; their crusade continued. They were at war for weeks, carving out the land as their own.

Three of his men approached during the evening while he was eating, their armor clinking softly as they knelt before him, heads bowed. They were scouts tasked with conveying the area ahead.

"My lord." The one in the center spoke, his voice a hushed and respectful tone, and his arm held out with a map held lightly in his fingers. "We have discovered an oncoming army marching from the north."

"Is that so?" Erik spoke calmly, showing not the faintest of change as he, with the unforgotten manners of nobility, cut his steak with a knife and ate. His men waited for him to chew and gulp down his food, as did he before he continued on. "It would seem those we let loose have rallied the masses. Relay my orders. We will ambush them in the forest from the preparations we made the day before."

"Yes, my lord!"

An army of a thousand men marched on foot, murders of crows following them above in the towering trees. They were ignorant to the fact that their ranks had already been infiltrated, that their formations had been destroyed, that hiding within the very trees around them, was the patiently awaiting enemies of Innah'vadah.

The massive trees had been hollowed out, keeping intact the bark. Inside, the Fallenic Knights waited at the ready.

Suddenly, a bird's call echoed through the woods, its tone more a signal than a natural utterance. It marked the moment for the knights to unleash their attack as they pushed the bark away and ambushed the marching army. Chaos ensued all across the forest as the Telvanians were picked apart from the inside.

Heads were decapitated, limbs were severed, organs were spilled, and blood was sprayed. The orders of the commanders fell on deaf ears, muddled by the sound of the crows above and the shouting of men.

At a trickling stream running across the forest, stood a haggardly old woman at its edge. She stepped back, her neck tossing and turning to the sound of men dying.

("Do it, witch!! Hurry!") One of the soldiers shouted to her as he was felled.

She chanted with barely audible gasps, her twisted and accursed spells, clasping a rotted and sigil-carved stave, as well as a grisly talisman of intertwined hair at which multiple, weathered skulls hung from, in her wrinkled and decrepit hands.

The murders of crows above began to beat their wings; their blackened feathers raining down from the tree tops above like a macabre rain. They swooped down, swarming the knights. Their infected talons aimed at clawing flesh and eyes, but they couldn't get past their armor, only managing to disrupt their vision.

The witch continued to chant while prancing her idols with her loosened wrists. As her rasped voice whispered in the wind, the crows recalled, and the solid earth transformed into a quagmire of mud, ensnaring and falling the men from across the forest, enemies and allies alike. 

Even the lone knight, surrounded by enemies and knee-deep in mud, refused to surrender against the odds. The men around him slowly surrounded him, before one of them struck. Quickly, the knight swung his blade, slitting his throat open. The Telvanian fell, grasping at his neck as his throat began to fill with blood. The others jumped at the opportunity, grabbing the knight from all sides while shouting at each other.

Three of them pulled his arms and head back, one hitting his helmet with their sword, and another prying open his gauntlet to disarm him of his blade. 

The lone knight struggled against them, and as his blade was dropped, he tightened his grip, grasping the fingers of the one who disarmed him. The man yelped in pain as his fingers were being crushed between the metal of his gauntlet. The back of his helmet struck against the one behind him, the sound of their nose breaking against his helmet, ringing around him.

With strength alone, he broke free from their grasp, grabbing the head of the one to the right, he shoved him underneath the mud. The man struggled and flailed as his lungs began to fill and he began to suffocate. He held him down by his nape while fending off the rest with his round shield, using it as a weapon to bash his assailants. He was unrelenting, resilient, stoic, with the heart of a lion and the instinct of a tiger. He was as all the Fallenic Knights were trained to be, the sword of their lord.

The hundreds of Telvanian men were slaughtered, their corpses riddling the forest. The witch, old as she was, ran for her life. Her bare feet carried her for quite a while, but it was pointless.

One knight appeared ahead of her, out from behind a tree as if he had been waiting for her, as if he had been there the whole time. This knight was different, his armor more regal, with a cloak of shadows. The witch stopped in her tracks. She grabbed with both hands, her stave. Her lips began to move as she attempted to utter a chant, but nothing. Silence, not even the sound of a gasp of air. The realization terrified her, unable to even utter a noise, she fell to her knees, her beading eyes staring at the knight approaching her.

("Witch.") His hollow voice called out. ("What god do you serve?")